


walking in time

by colderwater



Series: skylines [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:17:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colderwater/pseuds/colderwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years isn't enough time for Harry to stop being in love with Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walking in time

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly edited. Also, I changed the title, because I'm planning on adding this to a series.

It's sometime in the middle of July, and Harry is learning how to float.

He struggles in the rough currents of the ocean, his mind heavy with water and his lungs pleading for air. He feels cold, his fingertips numb and frozen as he reaches for the sun. Warmth falls down on him like light rain on a midsummer day, freezing when it hits his skin, turning him slowly but surely into ice.

He can't breathe, he's drowning, but he can't stop looking at Louis: can't stop himself from sinking into that cerulean water like he's an anchor going down, deeper and deeper, until he's gone, until he's lost.

And he tries to talk, or run away, or something, but he can hear his heartbeat take off like a set of drums, so loud he can't take it, and his head—it all just really, really fucking hurts.

"Fancy seeing you here, mate," says Louis.

The camera flashes are dull and blurry, yet they burn his eyes like dying stars, sending out gentle sparks of light before fizzling like a blown-out candle.

He tries to speak, knowing that there are accusing cameras directed at them from every angle, but his heart is racing and his palms are sweating and fucking hell, he's got to get out of there. Louis smiles a little, his eyes sad, and Harry thinks that this must be some kind of joke. This is all some distorted, sick joke. The entire world is there: watching, laughing, and he's the fucking punch line.

Harry ignores the insistent burn pressing at the back of his eyes and, well. "Yeah. Fancy that."

♡

Harry stares at Louis for minutes or maybe hours or perhaps a century.

He just stares, on the red carpet at some stupid movie premiere he can't bring himself to remember the name of. Flashes of light in the corner of his eye remind him that this is front page New York Times material. £2.99 magazine cover material. Weekday morning radio talk-show material.

Louis is staring right back, his eyes bewildered but also sad somehow; distant, and suddenly, desperately, Harry wishes he still knew him.

It's enough to make his chest constrict with want, so much of it that he's burning with the desire to touch and taste, to feel two hearts beating so close together the sound could be mistaken for one.

Memories crash through the shield he's worked so hard to build over the last five years, and the beautiful blue waves threaten to pull him under.

The only thing that keeps him surfaced is Louis. It's always been Louis.

♡

"I like your bowtie," Louis says later on, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

The crowd and the cameras have moved to the after-party, a silly V.V.V.I.P. thing that Harry was meant to attend. The summer air is warm, and the tip of Louis' cigarette is a dying red star that glows from a million miles away.

He smiles then, a stupid smile that doesn't reach his eyes; doesn't make them crinkle up at the sides. It's that fake smile that Louis used to use with strangers because he could get away with it, and fuck, Harry hates it. He hates standing in front of this heartbreakingly captivating stranger, knowing that he used to know every single inch of him, and now he's using that goddamn fake smile on Harry, of all people.

He kind of hates Louis himself, now that he thinks about it.

He hates Louis' crooked bottom teeth, and the way his lips were always too dry, and the sparkle in his eye that never seemed to fade. He hates Louis, and he hates movie premieres, and he hates seeing someone stand in front of him and know in the back of his mind that he used to know said someone like the back of his own hand. He can't see Louis anymore, can't see his crazy, wonderful boy with the silly smile and a knack for singing along to girly musicals.

Fuck, then. He may as well be blind.

♡

Harry is twenty-one again. Twenty-two in three days.

He walks into his apartment, eyes cold with rainwater, his bare feet burning against the carpet. He trembles with anger and hurt and maybe something else as he makes his way over to the bookshelf, an old thing passed over by Louis' mother. The layers of dust swirl like mist, like snow, and Harry slides his arm angrily across the surface, the framed photos falling to the floor like dominoes.

He destroys all his memories, frame by frame, watching the glass shatter as it hits the floor.

He kicks the shards of glass and metal, reveling in the sharp sting sliding against his skin. He rips several of the photographs in half, running his hands over his pockets in haste to find a lighter. He feels like maybe the earth is splitting in half, it must be, and he's falling into the flames. Or maybe he already has, maybe he's been burning this entire time.

♡

It's September 2015 and Harry goes back to London, back to his and Louis' flat.

Anne had wanted him to go back. She was the only one who picked up the phone when he'd called at four in the morning, his voice raw and cracked by broken sobs. She was the only one who was willing to give everything to him, even though in the end, all he would do was fuck it up.

She's his mother, and Harry loves her, so he nods and tries to smile and ignores the spark of pity in her eyes as he climbs into his car.

There's not much to say. It's exactly the same.

A few of Louis' shoes are still scattered across the floor. If he went down the hall, there would be a bathroom, a closet, and the bedroom where they had sex for the first time. In the living room, the sun shines down, making dust dance around shards of broken glass, like snowflakes escaping from a shattered snow globe.

He sweeps the mess into a bin, his chest heavy with longing and something else, a terrible feeling that grabs at his heart and won't let go.

Left on the floor is a polaroid photo. On the back is a barely legible _07/23/12 !! love you dork :)_ and Harry wants to rip it apart, destroy it past repair, but he knows he won't. He would never, no matter how much he thinks he might want to.

He knows what's on the other side without turning it over. It's a slightly blurry photo of himself, eyes laughing and smile bright. It was taken by Louis on their one-year anniversary. Back then, Harry had thought that he'd never be happier than he was at that precise moment; that it wasn't even _possible_.

If he turned the photo over, he wouldn't recognize himself. Louis had taken the boy with the happy eyes with him when he left.

♡

That night, Harry lies awake in his bed that's far too wide, covered by his blanket that's not warm enough, just staring at the digital clock on his bedside table. He watches as the minutes pass by, as time goes and hides somewhere secret, knowing that it will never be found again.

Louis is everywhere. In the kitchen, frying eggs and French toast and whatever the hell he makes, setting off the fire alarm in the process. Curled up in his arms as they watch a dumb romantic comedy from the seventies, pretending to hate the movie but falling asleep with a secret smile on his lips. Beside him every morning, every night, every quarter to three in the afternoon, just barely out of reach when Harry extends his hand.

Louis is everywhere, and Harry is nowhere, and that's just how it is.

♡

Five years later, they stand on a red carpet, drawing circles around each other like the Earth and the sun. Harry always thought that Louis was like the sun—brilliant and warm and essential for Harry to go on living.

His body feels numb as he tries to smile. He says _thanks_ in response to Louis' bowtie comment.

They gaze at each other warily; withdrawn, the seconds turning into painful minutes. Harry's mind is shifting into overdrive, urging him to _speak speak speak say something go on you'll never get another chance so speak now._

"I just wanted to—" he says in a rush.

"I was wondering if—" Louis starts at the same time, then laughs as he breaks off. "Sorry, H. You go ahead."

Harry can't shake his head fast enough. "You first, really," he says, his heart hammering patterns into his ribcage.

"All right then, mate," says Louis, bringing his cigarette to his lips. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, running his hands through his styled fringe almost nervously.

They face each other in silence, years of unspoken words echoing off the sky, so loud it's deafening, so bright it's blinding.

"There's a tea lounge someplace around here," Louis says quickly.

Once the words sink in, Harry's entire body feels cold, like he's caught in a blizzard in the middle of January. This can not mean what he thinks it means.

"They make good milk tea, H." Louis smiles a little. "Which you pretend to hate but I know you secretly can't get enough of. I'd, like. I'd really like to catch up with you, you know. As mates," he adds, stumbling over his words. Then, after a pause, "If you want to, that is."

Harry's heart slams painfully in his chest, and what the _fuck_. Louis can't really be asking him for tea. In the back of his mind there's this stream of _say no c'mon do it he's not really interested he slept with someone else probably lots of_ someone else _'s and he's married and say no say no say no_ but it's all drowned out by the ringing in his ears and the almost brutal sound of his own heart crashing against his ribcage.

Harry opens his mouth with the full intention of saying a polite _no, thank you_ and walking away and never having to face this stunning blue-eyed boy again. But Louis' looking up at him with a shy smile and eyes full of desperation or hope or maybe both, and well. Harry knows he isn't going anywhere else.

♡

It's cold outside, so cold the snow and wind and ice had managed to freeze over the electricity. A break from the X factor also marks their three month anniversary, which they spent cuddling and watching dumb movies and exchanging messy handjobs in the back of Louis' car, the frost on the windshield an icy barrier than separates them from the rest of the world.

Later, in the kitchen, Louis digs through his fridge and cupboards and ends up with a few teabags stored in a metal box and two glasses of milk.

"What the fuck, I'm not drinking that," Harry says.

Louis doesn't even look up. "Yes, you are."

Harry watches Louis stir together the drink, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Who in their right mind would mix together milk and tea?"

Louis' laugh is immediate, eyes crinkling up. Harry's mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and he thinks for what must be the millionth time that Louis is the sun, that he's most brilliant boy in the universe.

"Watch it," he says sharply, but he's smiling and his eyes are soft.

But just because Louis is Louis, and Harry just so happens to be quite fond of him, Harry picks up one of the glasses.

The milk is creamy and light, the tea sweet like honey, like sugar cubes. It melts on his tongue, leaving a slight bitter taste that mixes with the sugar. The pathetic thing is that even if it had tasted terrible, Harry would probably still have gone and finished off the entire glass, because it's Louis and it's only been three months but he's so incredibly gone for him that it's insane.

"How d'you like it?" asks Louis, picking up a raw sugar cube, a smug grin teasing his lips.

Harry pretends to wipe his mouth, but he's got that stupid fond look on his face, of course he does. "Tastes like shit. I hate you."

♡

It's December twenty-fourth, which means it's Christmas Eve, which means it's Louis' twenty-second birthday.

It's really nice, is the thing. Harry can't see straight and he feels like he might faint or something, but it's nice. He feels drunk when he kisses Louis, his mind fuzzy and his body heavy. It's almost like his body has some sort of sensor that responds only to _blue eyes soft hair rosebud lips,_ sending fireworks around his body and setting them off; letting him explode.

Afterwards, Harry presses light kisses into Louis' skin and brushes his hair away from his eyes and he wonders how on earth he got so lucky.

"I really hope you didn't get me much," Louis says, his voice soft, and oh. Harry had thought he was asleep.

"Shut up," Harry retorts softly, kissing his forehead.

"Don't do that, baby, okay? You don't ever need to spend money or effort or time or any of that bullshit on me. Just, you know, being with me—staying with me, it's enough. It always will be."

Harry looks down at his boy. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, eyelashes brushing delicately at his cheeks like feathers. Something crashes inside him, a tidal wave maybe, and Harry's hit again with the realization that this incredible human being is _his_.

"I love you, Louis Tomlinson," says Harry.

He feels Louis' smile before he sees it, taking the opportunity to lean in and guide their mouths together.

"Really, H, I'm serious. You know I can't stand when people waste money on me. Especially you."

"Especially me? I'm offended."

Louis ignores him. "Just putting up with me is enough, yeah? But you stick with me, and you _love_ me, you idiot. That's more than I could have ever asked for. That's everything I'll need for the rest of my life, and I can't be so selfish as to ask for more."

And fucking hell, Harry really, really loves this boy. He loves him with every part of his heart and soul, this foolish boy who looks at him like he's some kind of miracle, like he's the eighth wonder of the world or something crazy like that.

"I'd give you the whole world if i could, you know," says Harry. "The entire universe, even. Every planet, every star, the asteroid belt, even Pluto." He pauses, body melting with warmth at the sight of Louis' soft smile. "Even though it's not a planet anymore."

"You're so dumb," Louis says, laughing. His eyes are bright and happy and everything about him in that moment is endless, infinite.

"Though it'd be a bit hard to fit the entire universe in our bedroom, wouldn't it? We'd have to settle for something smaller. Like the moon. Or a star, maybe."

Louis rolls his eyes, but his lips curve up just the tiniest bit, giving him away. "Sure, all right. Go on and catch me a star, H."

"I will, just you wait," says Harry.

"Good luck, then," Louis laughs. Then he glances down, shaking his head a little, his eyes almost sad.

"What?" Harry asks, anxious. "Louis, what is it?"

"I don't deserve you," Louis whispers, and Harry leans into him, into his warmth; his safety. His skin feels hot where they touch, like he's on fire, and he knows that for the rest of his life, a bed and a blanket and Louis is all he'll ever need to be happy.

"Shut the fuck up." Harry presses his mouth against Louis' skin. This is his boy, and he's wonderful, and Harry loves him.

♡

It's June 2015, and Harry's dangerously close to making a complete idiot of himself.

He's gone from staring at T-shirts and jeans to standing awkwardly outside a tattoo parlour within seconds, wondering what it would be like to have Louis' name inked into his skin, another reminder of forever that would never fade away.

The buzz of the needle dances across his skin, etching delicate patterns of black against white, the fluid ink cold against the soft skin hidden under his left arm. The tattoo artist wears an amused smirk the entire time, and it's not like it's a big deal. It's really not.

A while later, Harry smiles at her and says thank you, his body alive with excitement or pain or some crazy combination of both.

"No problem," she says, like it's casual, blasé, definitely not a big deal, but there's a knowing glint in her eye that says otherwise.

But they don't mention when an uncontrollable giddy smile spreads across Harry's face as he pulls on his coat, and they don't mention it when he winks and slips her a one hundred percent tip.

He gets the ring from this store that smells like vanilla perfume. This is a huge thing, proposing, but Harry's ready for huge. He's ready to take on the world and run a thousand miles and swim across the Pacific Ocean and all that. He knows that he can do anything, absolutely anything, as long as he has Louis by his side.

As he drives home, anticipation numbs his body, and all he can feel is a dull sting under his left arm and a velvet box weighing down his coat pocket.

♡

Harry arrives at the tea lounge ten minutes late. He sees Louis and he doesn't know what the hell it is but his palms are sweaty all of a sudden and his breaths are shallow and _fuck_ , this was a bad idea. And he's a few meters away, Louis is, messing with his phone under the table, crossing and uncrossing his legs. It's something he does when he's nervous.

 _It's okay_ , he tells himself. _He's just being kind_. Kind is Louis' middle name.

He closes his eyes for a second and vows that even if Louis wanted to restart a relationship with him Harry would say _no thank you, you stupid boy with stupid blue eyes_  and kick him in the groin and walk right out of this stupid tea place and never, ever look back.

Louis' just so close, at the table in the corner taking a sip of what is undoubtedly Yorkshire tea. Across from him is a steaming mug filled with something that looks suspiciously like milk tea, and Harry's heart leaps around dangerously in his ribcage.

Louis looks up then, and a wide smile illuminates his features. He stands up, setting his cup of tea on the table, and walks over.

Harry's pretty sure he's meant to say something right about now, but Louis' eyes are so incredibly blue like the ocean or like the sky or like the ocean reflecting the sky. They're captivating—that's the only word for it, and, well. Harry is held captive.

He opens his mouth, but then so does Louis. Louis laughs, real and melodic, and a knot unravels in Harry's stomach.

"Oops. Sorry, H. You go ahead."

His mouth goes dry because he hasn't actually got anything to say. He lets out a shaky laugh, running his fingers through his hair. "Hi. It's nice to see you." Mentally, he kicks himself in the shin, then adds, "Again."

Louis grins. "It's quite nice to see you, too. Again." He leads Harry over to their corner table, pulling out Harry's chair.

"Thanks," says Harry. He sits.

"Hey," says Louis. "Look what I ordered for you."

Harry risks a smile. "I don't even like milk tea. I thought you of all people would know that."

It's spoken with so many layers of resentment and sadness and pain that it doesn't come across as anything remotely close to a joke, but Louis laughs anyway.

They talk. It goes fine. They talk about Louis' new movie and about the birth of Gemma's twins and the weather and football and tea and paparazzi and Zayn and Liam and Niall. Louis asks if Harry's been seeing anybody lately, and Harry responds with a tight smile and, "I forgot to ask. How is he?"

"I asked you first."

Harry looks up. Louis is staring at him, his blue eyes just like water. The air between them prickles with heat; with unsaid words that have been kept hidden for years. A few electric seconds pass by, feeling like decades, and Harry gives up. "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

It's silent for a while. Harry's just about to stand up, to make up some stupid excuse and get the hell out of this place, when Louis says, "How hard would you punch me if I said I was sorry? Scale of one to ten."

Harry laughs dryly. "Don't know, mate. Nine, nine and a half?"

Louis' features twist into something that sort of resembles a smile. "Well," he says. His eyes are sad. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Okay," he says, but it's not.

"I really am."

Harry nods, standing up. He wills himself to stay quiet, because if this conversation goes any further he's afraid he might do something stupid like cry.

Louis rocks back onto his heels, and he looks so lost and scared and vulnerable. Harry doesn't leave, he can't move—all he can do is blink back his tears and grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and pretend that none of this is real.

"What can I do to make you stay?" is what Louis says next, and Harry opens his eyes.

He doesn't trust his voice, but he hears himself clear his throat. When he speaks, the words are scratched and broken. "You want me to stay?"

Louis nods, and keeps nodding. "I always have. You know that." He sounds slightly less sure of himself as he adds, "Don't you?"

"You left me, Louis."

Once the words hit the air, they suddenly become real. Instead of being a spark of pain shoved in the back of his mind, the images and words and emotions from that evening years and years ago are now real. They're as real as the water gathering in the corner of Harry's eyes; as real as the sharp breath that Louis sucks in through his teeth.

"You just left, like I didn't even matter," he continues, his voice a scared, fragile thing that could at break any second. "I needed you, and you were scared, yeah, and you just walked out. And I know you're sorry, but that doesn't just make it okay."

"What will, then?" Louis whispers. "What's going to make it okay?"

Harry doesn't say anything, and that's his answer.

He watches Louis nod slowly, his eyes draining with realization. He watches him wipe his eyes angrily with his sleeve as he nods again, faster this time. "Okay," he says, and he sounds defeated. "I get it. Okay."

"Hey," Harry says, before he can change his mind. His vision has become blurry and his throat is too dry and too wet all at once and his hands won't stop fucking shaking. "Wait a second, Louis."

"In case I never see you again, I want you to know that you've hurt me more than I can describe. More than I even thought was possible, Louis. But you've made me happier than I can describe, too, and before I met you I never once thought that it was possible for me to feel so much happiness. I was nothing before I met you, and I was nothing after you left. And I'll never forgive you, just like how I'll never stop loving you. Just like how I'll never wake up without wishing you were beside me, or like how I would never have given that stupid ring to anyone else in this entire universe."

"Harry," Louis chokes out. It's all he says, and Harry knows right away that he shouldn't have said it.

"I had to tell you," he says softly. And then he leaves, because now Louis is crying, and there's nothing Harry hates more than seeing Louis cry.

♡

It's October 2015 and the only thing Harry feels is cold. It's been four months since he and Louis had broken up, four months full of hailstorms and blizzards and frozen Antarctica winters.

His hands shake as he opens the bag, and his palms are sweaty as he picks up the little box, the velvet soft against his fingers. Specks of dust rest on the gold band, like glitter, and beams of sunlight reflect patterns off the stone, blinding him, making his head spin.

"Louis," he whispers, to nobody and everybody.

He slides a window open, letting out a breath as the autumn air hits his skin. At times like these, the only thing that makes him feel sane is the wind, whipping back his hair, lashing brutally at his cheeks.

He leans over the window, and for a tenth of a second Harry thinks about jumping. It wouldn't work, though. It wouldn't take him to Louis. It would kill him, but it wouldn't take him to Louis.

"Marry me, Louis," Harry gasps out, and he hopes that somehow the wind will carry his words to Louis. "Be mine. Marry me."

He stands there for a while, with the wind stinging his eyes. Then, Harry counts to ten, swings his arm back, and lets it fly.

♡

Harry knows who it is, but he still opens the door. He knows that he shouldn't, that what he's about to do is hands down the worst ever decision he'll make in his lifetime, but he still opens the door.

"Hey," says Louis.

He looks like heartbreak. His hair is in knots, his eyes swollen and red, and his voice breaks when he tries to speak.

Harry's chest aches at the sight of him. His instinct is to wrap his boy into his arms and whisper useless comforts into the shell of his ear, to hold him together until he's no longer broken. He knows he can't, is the thing, so he doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just waits—for an explanation, for an apology, for some sort of escape that won't ever be an option.

"I don't, like," Louis says shakily. "I'm not sure what I'm even doing here."

Harry wants to tell him to leave, but he wants to tell him to stay maybe a little bit more. He meets Louis' eyes, and he sees _I'm sorry_ and _I'm so lost_ and _I need you to bring me home._

"But there's one thing I am sure of," he goes on, his voice small and painfully honest. "And that's you. I've got a lot of uncertainties, a lot of doubts and maybes and things that aren't set in stone, but that doesn't include you."

"What are you saying?" Harry asks, but he already knows, of course he does.

"You—" Louis laughs breathlessly, his voice catching on a sob. "I've never been surer of anything."

"You left."

Louis shakes his head. "I'm back now, aren't I?"

An unexpected tidal wave washes over him, staining Harry's vision red with anger. He clenches his hands into fists, so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Fucking hell, Louis, you can't just do that!" He closes his eyes for a second, to try and calm himself down. "It isn't fair, you know?"

"It isn't fair," he says again. "It's not fair for you to just come back into my life like this because you tore it apart, Louis. It's been years and all I wanted was to hear from you, see you, be with you. All I've ever wanted was you. And it just isn't fair for you to tell me all this bullshit and expect it to be okay because it isn't, and it might never be okay because you know, that's just what you've done to me! Just—don't go saying things you don't mean. Please just don't, yeah? That's all I'm trying to say."

"Hey, now that isn't fair," Louis says back, his voice thick. "I've never in my life said anything I didn't mean."

"The _hell_ you haven't—"

"I haven't," Louis repeats, his tone raw and honest, stripped down. "I meant every word I've ever said to you."

Harry sounds strained as he asks, "Why, then?"

"I can explain," Louis says shakily, almost timid. "If you let me, that is. I promise, H, if you give me ten minutes, I can explain. I promise," he repeats.

So Harry lets him.

He lets Louis tell him about how he saw his face as he fucked another man, just days after he walked away, how he saw rings of green on the back of his eyelids as he came. He lets Louis tell him about how numb he had felt when he walked out the door, how it was like warmth was draining from his body as he walked further and further away from Harry. He listens to Louis' ragged breaths and sees the tears gather in his eyes as he talks about how he stayed away just so Harry could be happier. How he thought that Harry was the most brilliant being to ever grace the earth, and how he didn't think of himself as anything more than a burden; a heavy weight that was pulling him down. How he cried himself to sleep every night for the first two years, and how even now he can't last the night without saying Harry's name in his sleep.

"I still love you, you know," Louis says. "It hasn't changed, and it's not going to change."

"Louis," Harry whispers. He isn't angry anymore—doesn't think he hasn it in himself to be angry. His chest burns hearing those words after so long, and they sound exactly the same as before. It's like they were never apart, never broken into two halves of a whole. It's like they're simply picking up where they left off.

Louis takes a step closer, and Harry can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He thinks again that Louis must be the sun, and he is merely the orbit that draws circles around him.

It's been several years, and even more months, and still even more days, and minutes, and seconds. Time will melt away and the earth will burn into ashes and the only thing left in all of existence will be darkness, but wherever he is, Harry will always belong to the boy at his doorstep. It's the one thing he's sure of, and he's not sure of much, but he doesn't need to be. All he needs is Louis to hold him and look at him the way he used to and love him, and that is all he will ever need.

Harry doesn't speak. He can't find the words that will convey what he wants to express, so he locks eyes with Louis, with his beautiful, broken boy, and he tries to say _I love you_ , but also _how can I believe you?_

Louis seems to understand. "I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

Somehow, he and Louis were now inches apart, as if they had drifted unknowingly towards each other like the strongest of magnets. It's so crazy, is the thing—they had been lightyears apart, and still managed to find their way back to one another.

 _That's love_ , Harry thinks, and he's absolutely sure of it. He's never been surer of anything.

He lets himself smile. "And how are you planning to prove it, exactly?"

Louis steps closer, his eyes bright with newfound hope, a beautiful, delicate thing that had been missing from his eyes for far too long. He's so close now, just a breath away, and he's so warm and so bright and he's everything Harry has ever wanted.

He leans in, or maybe Louis does, and their mouths crash together in a fierce, desperate kiss. It's like he's in the water once again, but this time he's not alone. This time he has the boy with the blue eyes floating with him, tangled up in the waters that try to pull them down, down, deeper. They kiss like they're drowning—gasping for air, gasping for each other. Louis tangles his fingers into his hair and he pulls him unbelievably closer, his lips tracing Harry's jaw tenderly to mean _I'll never let you go again_.

Harry pulls back, holding Louis tight against his chest, right against his heart. He presses his mouth to the top of Louis' head, his hands tracing circles onto Louis' back to mean _Listen to my heart. Listen to how it beats for you._

Louis laughs, loud and bright and immediate. "I love you," he says, his voice gentle and light, like a soft melody played only for the two of them. "I love you, I love you, I love you, oh my God, I fucking love you—"

"Shut up," Harry laughs, kissing his forehead.

Louis is silent, and Harry listens to his breathing, a soft, steady thing full of life, of promise. Minutes later, Louis smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the edges, and Harry thinks, well, this is it.

"I love you, Harry Styles," he says quietly, his voice nothing more than a whisper. "I love you so much."

Harry pulls him in, feeling Louis' breath against his skin. "Go on and prove it, then," he grins, his eyes dancing with mirth. He leans closer and bends down to whisper in Louis' ear. "Take me home."

♡

It's a quiet night; the kind of night that reminds Harry of calm ocean waves lazily crashing onto white sand.

He pulls Louis closer to him, because he's Louis and Harry always wants him to be closer. Closer and closer and closer, until the only thing separating them is warm breaths and whispers and promises and two hearts beating as one.

"We're married," he says to himself, his voice soft and light, glowing with wonder.

"That we are, H," Louis says back. He presses his mouth to the slight dip of Harry's collarbones. "What? Changed your mind already?"

Harry laughs. "Not a chance, man."

"That's good to hear, then. I was thinking of keeping you around for a bit longer, you know. Can't do that if you decide to go running off."

"Lucky me, then," he retorts, with an eye roll because his boy is just so ridiculous. He's so ridiculous, and Harry loves him more than anything. It's just—he's the love of his life, Louis is, and just thinking it makes him lightheaded, his every nerve buzzing with excitement.

Louis shakes his head, and he looks up at him with soft eyes. "No," he says quietly. "I'm the lucky one."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this. Leave me a comment, I like reading them.


End file.
